Silence, faker! It pains me to hear you assuming the indentity of a man whose value I cannot even place a figure on, a man whose shoes you are not fit to wear, a man whose eloquence outshines your own by a margin comparable to the gap between Richard Nixon's public utterances and his credibility. How DARE you pretend to be Amos?

No, I didn't go to Getaway. I spent the weekend as Mother's children should, sober and well-mannered. Not in some dive with other decadent reprobates, swilling evil liquor and carousing with those of ill repute while passing it all off as a festival of song and good fellowship.

"please stop waving your arms around, as it could fly off and hurt someone."

Ha! More proof that you are an imposter. Amos would know perfectly well that the word "it" in the above sentence is completely incorrect. Amos would have said "please stop waving your arms around, as they could fly off and hurt someone" or "please stop waving your arms around, as one of them could fly off and hurt someone".

You are not Amos. You are a poorly educated Republican saboteur and kidnapper of our beloved Amos, master of the written and spoken world and world champion of blathertwaddle.

It varies from year to year. The year he had nine bypasses he thought he might not have any more. The year he was in Vietnam he was rocketed and thought he might not have another one anytime soon. Then he had a slight stroke a few years back and.... Well, you get the idea. It all started when he was about five years old and had rheumatic fever.

By the way, yesterday was the birthday of his first grandson. The kid's about five now, but hasn't had rheumatic OR romantic fever...yet.

October is a very busy month for me: my anniversary is on the sixth, Xavier's birthday is the 7th, my bro's birthday is the eighth, and my wife's is the eleventh.

We don't need a big chunk from her -- the contents of her spit valve should do nicely. We will need several pounds from the person who claims to be "Amos" though. Of course, the REAL Amos will be happy to cooperate. Only a fake "Amos" would complain about our need for a leg or an arm or something.

I can see the MOAB has been infiltrated by imposters. Any of my old friends would have recognized my inimitable style by now, so I can only assume these loudmouth dilettantes are advertising their own sins by their overloud protestations. Sigh. Where did I leave that Bat Signal projector? I suppose I better text the Mayor of Pocatello, and let him know his library has been taken over by some weirdo walk-in doppelganger.

The outlook wasn't brilliant for the MOAB team that day: The thread was sagging toward the end, and Amos was away, And when Rapaire was taken over, and Little Hawk went dead, A pall-like silence fell upon the lovers of the thread.

A straggling few jumped off the line, to music, while the rest Clung to that hope which springs eternal in the human breast; They thought, "If only Amos would return from th distant Eastern coast... We'd put up even money now, if Amos would just post."

But Amos wasn't back yet, just Donuel and Rapaire, And the former was hoodoo, while the latter put on airs; So upon that stricken multitude sat glumness, fear and dread, For there seemed but little chance of Amos posting to the thread.

But Donuel made a funny post, to the wonderment of many, And Rapaire, the often pompous, wrote a thing both bright and zany; And when the dust had lifted, and men saw what had transpired, Old Mom was hanging half-way up, while the Getaway crew retired.

Then from five thousand throats and more there rose a lusty yell; It rumbled through the valley, it rattled in the dell; It pounded on the mountain and recoiled upon the flat, For Amos, mighty Amos, was returning to the 'Cat.

There was ease in Amos' manner as he sat before his keys; There was pride in Amos'bearing as he typed up quite a breeze. And when, responding to the cheers, he nodded his wise head, No stranger in the crowd could doubt 'twas Amos at the thread.

Ten thousand eyes were reading as he pressed his first "Submit"; Five thousand tongues applauded as he showed his winsome wit; Then while the others shouted out, to see our Mom raised high, Some caterwauling Mugwump snide said the post was just a lie!

"The man's a frasud!", the Mugwump said. "This isn't Amos' style! The typos are too many!" But Amos only smiled. He shook his wrists and typed again, the screen was blazing bright. The crowd stood up and shook the house! But the bum said, "That ain't right!"

From the benches, black with people, there went up a muffled roar, Like the beating of the storm-waves on stern and distant shore; "Kill him! Kill the Mugwump!" shouted some one on the stand; And it's likely they'd have killed him had not Amos raised his hand.

With a smile of Christian charity his friendly visage shone; He stilled the rising tumult; he bade the thread go on; He stretched his typing fingers,, and once more the post rang true; But the Mugwump, blinded by his sins, again said, "That ain't you!"

"Fraud!" cried the maddened Mugwump, and and the crowd yelled "You're the Fraud!" But one scornful look from Amos and the audience was awed. They saw his face grow stern and cold, they his brain cells strain, And they knew that Amos wouldn't let old Mom fall down again.

The post has flown, it's language round, and full, and rich and true; The post appears, and every voice as one calls "It IS you". And now the Mugwump falters, and he falls to a verbal hammer As Amos--mighty Amos--deftly straightens out his grammar.

With effortless skill he rectifies the Mugwump's definitions, And using polysyllables, displays his erudition, 'Til none can doubt the cure has come, for all their fear and dread: 'Tis Amos, mighty Amos, once again is on the thread.

Now in this favored MOAB land the sun is shining bright; Now the guitars are ringing out, and MOAB hearts are light, And MOAB men are laughing, and MOAB children shout; Except crestfallen Mugwump, missed by none, who done struck out.

That is true for you, Rapaire, and you will agree we have run around this bush before. No matter what you believe the word to mean, it does not sound like Rapparee in the spelling you offer for it. While you are within your rights to SAY it should sound one or another way, you will p[perhaps concede that standard English rules of [pronunciation have to be set aside to accommodate your narcissistic whimsy, a step I am unwilling to take just to humor you.

"you will p[perhaps concede that standard English rules of [pronunciation have to be set aside to accommodate your narcissistic whimsy, a step I am unwilling to take just to humor you."

Gad! It has to be Amos. Who the hell else would talk like that? Well, maybe Ron Davies would, but I digress. Note the innate lack of respect for another man's choice of how to pronounce his own name. Shocking! Just who is calling who narcissistic around here? I feel sure now that it is Amos who we are dealing with. His lofty tone denotes that it is, and that things are finally getting back to abnormal around here, and that's probably good.

I wrote it that way using the word "shamus" in the sense of "flatfoot" or "copper" -- see sleazy detective novels of the '30s and '40s.

Well, I told the Legion tonight about you and individuals contributed $29 towards a new bookmobile, with the Legion itself contributing $50. They have also pledged $15,000 as a "double or nothin'" reward fund for the return of the REAL Amos. They also will contact El Legion des Condors Californios de San Diego de Alcala y El Condor Pasa y El Quince Bridaga y Don Diego de la Verga to "track him down and find the REAL Amos and return him to the bosom of his family and friends, assuming he WANTS to be so returned and he didn't just want to duck out for a while or something."

I have hired a number of little match girls to raise money to find Amos. We are calling it the "Urchin Fund". We already have $13.50 here. I figure we will have enough money to ransom Amos maybe by Christmas.

I KNEW it! I just KNEW it! Amos is being held captive on some remote island which is probably awash in guano half the day and birdshit the other half! No fresh water, no swaying palm for shade, no coconuts to eat, just half-rotted fish and lima beans. I shall notify the Legion and the crack S&R team can begin searching the Adriatic and Bering seas immediatetly.

I have just returned from the Legion WhoWarehouse. They are outfitting an expedition which will make an extended search for The Real Amos. They're really serious about this, each packhorse is carrying at least two cans of pork-and-beans and six cases of whisk(e)y.